Travel

Yurkhun valley in Upper Chitral

By Naeem Safi

Being one of the 9 to 5 slaves, I was thinking of planning for the few days of freedom that I am going to get in the coming summer. After consulting half a dozen backpacker friends and dropping their usual suggestions for the mainstream destinations, a veteran hiker cum tourist guide and young documentary filmmaker suggested a corner deep in the North West that -- contrary to my fantasies -- did not have any nymphs (but yet) sounded full of mysteries and even some myths.

It is Yurkhun valley in Upper Chitral, and branches out on passes of Qarumber, Chilingi, Darkut and the historic Boruhgul Pass. The altitude of these passes ranges between 4000 meters to 5000 meters, and host more than 30 nameless alpine lakes, including the famous Qarumber and mythical Sirkhun. These pastures are mostly wetlands and are usually accessible by horses or otherwise on foot. There are a few hot sulphur springs for those who love bathing au naturel under the heavens with snow-capped mountains all around. Apart from its boundless inanimate beauty, this region is home to some of the rarest wildlife like golden marmot, ibex, Marco Polo sheep, yak, and the legendary snow leopard.

The valleys do not have any significant human settlements but some scattered mudstone houses that are inhabited by three major ethnic groups i.e. Tajik, Uzbek, and Kyrgyz. The common language among these groups is Wakhi, along with Kyrgyz, Kwar, and Uzbek.

These scattered inhabitants of the highlands heavily rely on dairy products obtained from the nutritious yak milk; rice, bread and yak meat.

Apart from the constant struggle for survival, which gives them a high level of endurance, they play buzkashi, yak polo, and horse polo for pastime. And if you are a windsurfer, then do not forget to pack your gear, as this is no less than ideal a place for windsurfing.

After getting an extensive briefing on such a prepossessing region from such a reliable source, one is not left with many options but to start exercising and begin collecting the stuff.

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Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/may2009-weekly/nos-10-05-2009/foo.htm#1

A Walk

Idiot's guide to re-colonisation

Exploring Lahore's walled city, in and around Dilli gate, to experience the extraordinary

By Naeem Safi

You put on your rugged jeans and the most comfortable walking shoes and check the battery and the card of your camera. Fill your bullet flask with chilled water and glucose; tuck in a pack of disposable ear plugs and half a pack of coin tissues in your shoulder bag, along with a cheap medical mask; all this to get into an urban jungle, and get out in one piece, body and mind. You have decided to explore the walled city of Lahore on foot. You either choose a Sunday to have an uninterrupted look at the urban fabric or some workday to float with the social flood on the streets.

You choose a gate that was apparently used by the rulers of a great Indian empire for entering into the city. They say Dilli gate is called Dilli gate because it faces Delhi. You cannot really see that unless you have attained an elevation of a few thousand feet. But if you are acrophobic, then all that you can see it facing is the Lunda Bazaar -- a place that offers the best quality canvases, if you are into painting. You will find it in various sizes, textures, and ratios of cotton. Or if you are into some production with a tight budget then may this be the Universal studio's warehouse for you. Just jump in with your costume designer. However, if this is your first time then make sure the designer is not a lady, and if that is not an option then pray she is attractive, and if your zodiac sign has no mercy on you then you can always add an extra hour for haggling. Even if you are not into any theatre or film production, this market is still very useful for what Shakespeare called a stage. But then you will have to act accordingly, even though if you are not in Rome, you can act like Romans while wearing their trash. All you need to do is just look down on those who cannot afford Marks & Spencer; learn some English, never mind the correct pronunciation, and there you go, being accepted and respected like a first class citizen. Enjoy being a gora saab in the third world. This is the Idiot's Guide to re-Colonisation

You look at the variety of outfits in multitude of forms, materials, colours and fashions and recall images from your school days how your fellows would fool crowds and sponsors by getting their entire ranges from here, dismantling them and then re-stitching them into some Frankenstein fashion. The trick is to cover the jumble of dresses and models of all heights, shapes, and proportions with appropriate lighting, loud music, and fog machines.

Here you can get fresh canvas bags, designed and made to your taste, for very nominal price and once you have what you want, you can gesture to all the Gucci's, and the sort, a V, an L, fare le corna, or any finger of your choice, depending on your level of achievement and contempt.

There is an antique coin seller sitting on the ground in front of a heap of coins of modern times too, but mostly they are the heavy bronze ones found in the foundations of centuries old buildings of the walled city, which are demolished to make room for the ever-growing demand of high-rise commercial buildings. The vegetable bazaar near the Dilli gate has farm-fresh vegetables and fruits, where the ones with foreign names are not as expensive as in the posh areas of the city. There are fish, mutton and poultry. The smell and sight of the meat business are not very welcoming. The bazaar is connected with a street that has a treasure trove of pottery and some other beautiful handmade collectables.

You feel hungry after a while and you can choose from a variety of chickpeas, ranging from spices of Mexican proportions in pools of crimson red oil, to the ones moderately spiced. There are some barbecue stalls offering chicken spare-parts and a couple of Afghani food joints in Lunda Bazaar crossing that branches out to the scrap metal market. You can try any of these only if you have a military grade stomach and immune system or if you don't mind finishing 'War and Peace' in a single sitting while getting rid of the load.

A local soul guides you and you find a four decade old mutton channey wala in a street just before the Dilli gate next to the pottery and meat street. The small shop has a few tables with wooden benches and a line of frames with images of gates of the walled city of Lahore. The food is not bad; the ambiance -- well, one does not have much of a choice. This is not the sort of food that one can enjoy while on iPod.

You finish your food and come out of the street and there you are, right in front of the Dilli gate. You need some pro-level footwork to avoid being hit by the flux of traffic and the manure on the tarmac that is emitted by the oldest form of transport still used heavily in the maze of the streets -- bulls, horses, and donkeys that pull various sorts of cargos, stuck in the urban jungle with their masters. Their emissions can be hazardous to us, another animal species, but are not a threat to the planet, rather are an essential part of the eco-system, unlike the human genius. Relatively no noise pollution either, except for the rhythmic stamping of the horseshoes. On these streets the number of carts pulled by animals is almost equal to those pushed by humans.

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Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/apr2009-weekly/nos-12-04-2009/foo.htm#1

Journey: Beyond Jbad and Macondo

Beyond Jbad and Macondo



By Naeem Safi

With the mention of Afghanistan the first images that come to mind are war, terrorism, and savage people. However, the truth is that Afghanistan can be as beautiful as the rest of the world and its people as human as we think we are as William E. Gladstone had put it his speech once:

"Remember the rights of the savage, as we call him. Remember that the happiness of his humble home, remember that the sanctity of life in the hill villages of Afghanistan, among the winter snows, is as inviolable in the eye of Almighty God, as can be your own."

The first pleasant surprise is the beautiful road between Torkham and Jalalabd. It is a gift from Pakistan to their Afghan brethren. The road winds through beautiful landscapes, olive groves and streams. The sheep, in distance, with their gray wool seem like cotton flowers against the dark metallic terrain. The adobe villages with children running and laughing on cowpaths among green fields are serene images of hope.

The images of decades of war can still be seen on the bullet torn ruins still left at a few places, the occasional Humvees patrolling the roads for security, and Black Hawks in the skies. But all that aside, the streets and bazaars of Jalalabd are bustling. The boys in Jalalabad call it Jbad, no pun, just affection.

As we are accustomed to the Afghan dress and to their lifestyle somewhat, for us the cultural shock arrived in edible form -- in the bowl of fruit shake, which was supposed to be eaten with spoon, as it was too thick and was beyond the capacity of any straw. The Afghani cheese is saltier than Feta, and is not aged that much. It comes in flying saucer shape, instead of square cake, as it is traditionally matured in baskets. It is savoured with honey and those big Afghan naans for breakfast, and of course the green tea.

The youth in Jalalabad is much interested in acquiring various sorts of education offered to them by public and private sector institutes -- from sciences to information technology and humanities. But the most common craze is for learning English language. It not only makes them good candidates for employment, it opens their boundaries of communication.

On the invitation of the driver working for an NGO, we went to his village in Hisarak, southeast of Kabul, but in Nangarhar province. The four hours drive on the dirt road was an adventure in its own right, testing the limits of the SUV and its tires. The region is mostly barren with vast plains and snow-capped mountains on the horizon. There are very few small villages on that route, with some of the houses built like mud-castles. The vernacular architecture in that setting paint unforgettable images on one's mind.

Finally after covering long stretches of the dirt road and climbing many mountains, we descended into a small valley, preserved like an oasis in those vast stretches of the uninhabited lands. The climate was much cooler and the ambience filled the senses with limitless tranquillity. It was a permutation of spring and summertime, and really hard to believe, like love at first sight. There is a freshwater stream coming from the leftover snow of the last winter. On either side of the stream there are terraces of different crops, dotted with fruit trees and some stone-wood houses. The total population is barely over a hundred.

After stretching our legs at the humble terrace in front of the guestroom -- which is a few minutes climb from the stream -- and having sweet milk-chai (that was especially prepared for us, as it's not very common among Afghans) we decided to stroll down to the stream. It is like some dream world, where most of the wild growth and herbs are edible, and each one has a distinct pleasant aroma. The first reference that came to mind was Marquez's Macondo, as "The world was so recent that many things lacked names [for us at least], and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point." Our guide was pointing at each species, uttering its local name, and then persuading us to try them, while describing their qualities.

Our excitement hit the peaks when the hosts stopped under a mulberry tree, one climbed up, and two held a chadder below. In a few seconds the chadder was filled with juicy berries, which were very different in their colour and taste from its variant found in the plains of Pakistan. We thought it was party time, but the hosts had another plan. A small dam was built in the ice-cold stream and the berries were poured into it. It is really hard to describe that experience in words.

Since we were covered with enough dust from the travel, we inquired about the possibility of taking shower. Then realised it was not decent to ask for shower, instead we should have asked for bathing. But I guess the host did not understand the difference anyway and asked us to follow him while instructing a young fellow to grab towels for us. We walked along the stream downwards and then took a track along a water channel, exchanging greetings with the local farmers busy tilling their vegetables. We reached a point where the channel was going through a hollowed-out tree trunk over a small ravine. The host stopped and we all gave each other those inquisitive looks. Then he walked into the log and removed a stopper and the water started splashing on the stones ten feet below. Lo and behold, finally we had arrived at the world's most beautiful shower! Just imagine visuals like some Amazon tribe dancing and singing in the rain.

After a good night's sleep, we were ready to climb to the Chilgoza Pine jungle the next morning. Though it was not the nut-harvesting season, the view of the trees and the valleys beyond them was breathtaking. Sitting on the mountain top, the elder brother of our driver was telling us stories of his jihad times and that how the Soviets had come from the land and the sky to their village eliminating everyone that was present including the animals. The wind blowing through the pine needles was producing the background music to his memories, as if giving voice to all those who had passed away without knowing their crimes.

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Published in The News on Sunday
http://jang.com.pk/thenews/mar2009-weekly/nos-01-03-2009/foo.htm#1